


The Many Numbered Heavens

by nurfherder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, Fluff and Angst, Heaven, Human Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nurfherder/pseuds/nurfherder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Together, we fashion the tapestry of our lives, and create the whole of our heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Many Numbered Heavens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemonrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonrow/gifts).



There are certain regrets that Castiel has when he thinks of his time as an angel. He regrets never visiting Ellen or Jo’s heaven. He regrets never taking the time to find this “Ash” person he has heard about, who was apparently the one to aide Dean and Sam on their journey through the Axis Mundi. That seems so long ago now, when Castiel was forced to speak to Dean through covert whispers on a radio, a shaking image on a television screen, barely able to communicate amongst the static and fear. Heaven, and his existence in it, is now so far away it’s only a distant memory.

He dreams of that Tuesday afternoon sometimes, when he falls asleep on the couch, dust trailing and dancing in the sun beams. He takes well to summer—he likes it so much, the tail-end flickering away into fall—summer is warm. Summer is the heat that makes Dean gripe and grumble, that makes even Sam’s steady temper irritable. But Castiel does not mind it. He does not mind, because becoming human so suddenly makes him always feel cold. Becoming human means that the feeling of winter is unbearable, and that the trench-coat he has worn for ages is now suddenly either too much or not enough. He keeps it, though. Rather, Dean keeps it. It is buried somewhere in the very back of his closet, because, as Dean says, “You never know.”

Castiel isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to know, or never know. Who he is supposed to be, what he is supposed to be—these are questions which no longer plague him as they once did. The terror of humanity is slowly, gradually replaced by joy. Yes, he is irritated by the cold. Yes, he is irritated by the seemingly constant need to relieve himself. He is irritated by sickness, by hunger, and by exhaustion, an everyday part of a hunter’s life. His muscles ache because he has never felt the use of them before—his eyes hurt, his hands hurt, his legs, his thighs. His heart hurts too, for very a long time.

But not anymore.

Human flesh is tender and sensitive. It bends to and from and picks up each little thing. Castiel can feel the errant, small pebble trapped under his feet as he walks barefoot on the cold cement floors. Castiel shivers as he opens the refrigerator door, the cold reaching its fingers out and teasing him. His skin trembles, sighs, and gives; it gives especially when Dean is near.

Castiel is on fire when their hands touch accidentally—when their fingers connect for a split second handing over a book from the library—and they both jump. This kind of feeling, this electricity; Castiel marvels as to where it came from. He vacillates on the thought of wanting more or fearing more. He shames himself for being foolish. But he doesn’t stop thinking about that feeling. And it isn’t very long before he realizes—what his human skin is now singing with perfect clarity—is something he has known all along.

Castiel is suddenly, painfully aware of the feelings that reside squarely within his heart. Feelings he has no doubt will remain unrequited. Dean bears the weight of a rather unfortunate truth: he was raised with preconceived pressures and ideals. He was raised in fear, and thus, he would probably never think of Castiel in that way. Even if he did, he would never allow himself to feel or to follow through. Castiel understands this.

Still, though: still. When there is a quiet moment, and the bunker is empty but for he and Dean resting on the couch together, Castiel will lean closer. They are falling asleep to old television show, and Dean is about to walk away to bed, so Castiel stretches out a thigh or a leg. He yawns and raises his arms in a move that he does not yet know is trite, and he will touch Dean. Gentle, comforting: terrifying. And then, after a heartbeat of a moment, Dean will move away. He will leave, and Castiel will marvel at the tingle in his fingers and the pain in his heart, and tell himself that enough is enough.

But even then, he moves closer. Out on hunts, or in down time at the bunker. Time passes and he, Dean, and Sam slowly and unconsciously move the priority of returning Castiel’s grace from forefront, to secondary, to afterthought. Still and even then, Castiel pulls himself closer and closer. And then, one day, Dean does not move away.

They are sitting on the couch. The TV is flickering bright and steady, and they’ve lowered the volume so much there is hardly reason to be watching it at all. And Castiel leans his head to the side. He arches his back, tucks his legs up, and reaches out from the circle of his body to rest a hand on Dean’s arm.

Castiel is so sleepy and so content—so used to Dean’s patten—that it takes him a few moments before he clues in that something has changed. He notices how warm his hand is. How Dean is so, so warm. And then Castiel realizes that Dean is still here.

Castiel sits up straighter. He looks at Dean, because Dean must surely be asleep, but he isn’t. Dean is watching the television, his mouth set in a small smile. And he suddenly blinks, and his eyes flit over to Cas. They look at each other for a long moment. Dean slides his hand over Castiel’s, squeezes his fingers, then pats them gently. “I’m going to bed.” He stands up, releasing his hold as he does. “Goodnight, Cas.”

They look at each other. Dean is still smiling sweetly. He goes, and Castiel’s heart doesn’t hurt. It’s flying at a thousand miles an hour, straight through his head and into the ceiling. He watches Dean go, and his mouth is dry.

The next night, Sam falls asleep on the armchair. It is difficult to sit next to Dean when Castiel is constantly afraid Sam will wake up and wonder what’s happening—and Castiel knows perfectly well that nothing is happening. Nothing. Except that he leaned himself into Dean five minutes ago and Dean has still not moved away. The breaths of their sides are touching, their thighs are touching. No one is speaking. Castiel can’t even be sure Dean is breathing, because he can’t hear anything outside the roaring of his ears.

Sam doesn’t wake up. But Dean waits even longer before he gets up to go to bed. When he finally does, he turns to Castiel and opens his mouth to speak. No sound escapes him. Instead, a bright spark shoots straight through Castiel’s heart the moment their eyes meet, and he is positive it flies through Dean as well. He’s positive, because there is a sudden awareness that crosses Dean’s eyes, a terror that Castiel knows all too well. Dean becomes a mirror and, for one second, Castiel believes in the impossible.

The next time they have a chance to relax and watch TV, Castiel rests his head on Dean’s shoulder. And the time after that, Dean leans back, stretches out his legs, and puts his arm around Castiel’s shoulders. Eventually, their heads end up on the armrest, and neither of them sleep in their rooms that night. Castiel wakes up in Dean’s arms, and finds himself in a mockery of a previous version of himself, watching Dean as he sleeps. He has never been this close before, never quite been able to witness the immaculate structures of his face and the curve of his lashes. Castiel wants to dot his freckles with a finger; he decides not to. He saves Dean the embarrassment and extracts himself from his arms, leaving Dean to wake up alone on the couch, potentially unaware of what happened.

It’s intimate. It’s intimate in a way that Castiel has never experienced. This is not sex, which Cas has had, and that was only so-so. This is not kissing, although the thought of kissing Dean sends Castiel’s heart into overdrive and he feels nauseous. He looks forward to the couch all day, looks forward to having another night wherein, maybe, they can wind themselves even closer together. But a case comes up that day in Washington state, and two weeks pass before Dean and Castiel are seated together again on the couch.

Castiel gnaws his lip. He fears that too much time apart spent in their work has undone everything. A part of him says loudly, louder and louder each time it speaks, that if Castiel would simply talk to Dean, none of this would be a problem. But he can’t speak. He’s never been good with words, not in the human sense. And Dean hates words. All they have is their bodies—their stupid, human, frail bodies—a communication that feels so sloppy and so inadequate.

Sam goes to bed. And Dean and Cas sit on the opposite sides of the couch. Castiel watches Dean, and suddenly, Dean turns to stare at him. Dean reaches out a hand; Castiel takes it. They pull each other slowly to the middle. Closer and closer, their eyelids flutter, their skin flushes pink. And then they suddenly fold together, and Castiel admits how wrong he was: the body does not communicate inadequately; it communicates perfectly.

The body has lips—wonderful, brilliant lips—lips meant to be applied against each other. Castiel had thought they were fashioned for words, but he was wrong. His mouth—the mouth of a Vessel, the mouth he now owns—his mouth was meant for Dean’s. Kissing was never like this before. Kissing was awkward and tongues and saliva and too much. But no, he was wrong about that too. This kiss is fire, actual fire being applied to his root, to his core, to his very being. They are clumsy and earnest and breathing and needing, and this is what it means to be human. Castiel knows it.

They pull away, and in that second they wrap themselves closer together. Dean is speaking, and Castiel forces himself to hear what he says. Dean is whispering and confused, he doesn’t know what’s happening. He’s never, never done this before, he’s never—

Castiel raises a hand and presses it against Dean’s lips, warm and full of blood and life. “I am in love with you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean blinks at him. “Oh.”

“So: that is what’s happening.” Castiel shudders and their chests heave together. Their arms are knotted around each other, and Castiel paints his hands across Dean’s face. He fits his thumbs under Dean’s chin, tracing down the line of his neck, and he pauses to lean in and to kiss under Dean’s ear, to trail down and worship the pulse line that bounces frantically beneath Dean’s skin.

Dean tries to speak; his throat cuts off the sound into a moan. Human, Castiel thinks. The word presents itself with pride now—definite pride—and roots itself in his heart. Worthy of praise and love. “Dean,” he murmurs. He feels the thrill up his spine as Dean runs his fingers there.

Dean speaks low into Castiel’s ear. “Cas…”

And that is the total of their conversation that night. The rest is lost in mixed phrases cut off by tongues, whispers hushed in the fear of waking the sleeping Sam down the hall. They grasp and kiss and cry out, and it is love. Castiel knows it’s love, even if Dean shies away from it. It is love that night, and it is love in every night that follows. In the weeks, months, and suddenly years that follow. It is love when Dean finally admits it. It is love when Sam rolls his eyes and says he always knew.

Castiel understands. He understands as a human what he never understood as an angel: love is the many numbered heavens. Every piece of it, every comfort and beauty found there is found in love. So Castiel and Dean hold each other, and they paint the tapestry of their lives. They fashion together the only heaven that they will ever need. And when the day comes that they will leave this earth forever, Castiel knows well what wonders will be waiting for them.


End file.
